


and it was hard but you were brave, you are splendid (and we will never be alone in this world)

by awkwardspiritanimals



Series: we could be heroes [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fitz-centric, Gen, mentions of past blood and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:10:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardspiritanimals/pseuds/awkwardspiritanimals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven conversations Leo Fitz has after not dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and it was hard but you were brave, you are splendid (and we will never be alone in this world)

He’s in bed for more than two weeks, afterwards. Ten days in, and the only way Jemma can really keep him there is by giving an entire list of his injuries every time he so much as tries to sit up- a major concussion, significant blood loss, two broken and four cracked ribs, a dislocated left shoulder, various cuts and some truly impressive bruising. His nose, amazingly, hadn’t broken, but his face was pretty swollen up regardless. Skye, looking as emotionally broken as he felt physically, had said that he had ‘one resilient schnozz,’ and he’d tried to correct her, tell her that it wasn’t even that big and so probably didn’t technically qualify as a schnozz, but even thinking about saying that many words in one shot gave him a headache, so he’d just gone back to sleep.

Pretty much everything gives him a headache, especially the first few days, when he’s high on what must be some very, very good painkillers and still kind of in shock about the whole not dying thing. It’s usually Jemma sitting in the chair next to his bed when he manages to blink his eyes open, her fingers twined with his or brushing across his forehead to push his curls into order or curled up and sleeping. Sometimes it’s Skye, playing around on her tablet or just staring blankly at him but not seeing him, or May, who is usually sitting on the floor meditating. One time it’s Coulson, looking roughly a thousand years old but managing a smile and an _I’ll go get Simmons_ when he sees Fitz’s eyes open.

He drops what little extra weight he had quickly, his face too swollen to eat much and the concussion making him too nauseous to keep it down. A week in, he’s got a patchy beard and his hair is getting a bit out of control, and Simmons finally gives in and helps him shave. The whole team is a little cautious around him, like they might break him, and while he can’t really blame them it does get on his nerves sometimes, when he’s beginning to feel better but Jemma won’t let him get up and doing almost anything makes his head pound like a drumbeat.

Mostly he just wants to talk to someone, but Jemma is skittish around him when he’s not barely conscious or in need of medical attention, Skye is about a million miles away, which is actually closer than Coulson is, and May has never exactly been chatty, with him or anyone else.

This is how he ends up having the first conversation of his post-not dying life with Antoine Triplett.

* * *

 

Fitz is surprised when he opens his eyes to see the other agent sitting in the chair next to his bed; if Jemma hadn’t mentioned him a couple times, Fitz wouldn’t have even known he was still on the Bus. He’s reading something, which is pretty impressive given the fact that the lights in the room are turned down so low.

“It’s probably not good for your eyes to be reading in this light,” he says, his voice raw from disuse.

Trip jumps a little at the sound, the book snapping shut, before he settles into the chair again with a slight smile, “Yeah, well, had to do something while you snoozed. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s a myth. You want me to go get Simmons?”

“No. I’m fine,” he says, and he’s not really, but he’s so tired of being pumped full of meds and loopy all the time that he’s willing to deal with the pain at the moment. The two of them sit in silence for a couple minutes after that, Triplett staring at the cover of his book and Fitz taking measured breaths, testing his ribs.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he says, and Trip looks up from his book, puzzled, “About how I treated you when you first showed up. It wasn’t right, and I’m sorry,” he takes as deep of a breath as he can manage, wincing at the sharp twang of pain up his left side. “Everything was going to hell, and I thought I was losing her, and well… you’ve met her. She’s not someone who is easy to lose.”

“Did you stay behind just to save Simmons?” Trip asks after a few long moments, looking straight at Fitz through the darkness of the room.

Fitz looks straight back when he answers, “No.” And it’s true. He stayed because all of them were worth saving and he could save them; it’s all the reason he ever needed.

“Didn’t think so. I’m sure as hell not going to hold a little jealousy against a man who got the shit beat out of him for me, so apology accepted. Though really, Fitz, I don’t think there’s much for you to worry about,” he pauses, looking down at the book. “I got you a present.”

Of all the things Fitz might have guessed he’d ever hear Antoine Triplett say to him, _I got you a present_ was not actually anywhere near the list.

“I figured since you hadn’t read it, and you might be cooped up for a while,” and he’s grinning now as he hands the book he’d been reading to Fitz, who squints at the title in the semi-darkness: _Moby Dick_. He laughs softly, and he’d shake his head if it wouldn’t feel like someone was trying to hammer a long, rusty nail through his temples.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I, uh, can’t really read it right now.”

Trip stares at him for a long while before whispering into the stillness of the room, “You can’t read?”

And when did his irritation with Triplett become tinged with affection? He’s sure his expression right now is almost as priceless as Trip’s because in his head he is saying _Excuse me, do you know who I am, I am world renowned genius Leopold Fitz, the youngest graduate in the history of S.H.I.E.L.D. I am literally a rocket scientist, of course I can read_. But even thinking that fast makes his head spin, so he just answers, “The concussion. I can’t read it right now.”

“Oh, right, right. Of course you can read. I don’t know why that was the first thing that occurred to me,” Trip says back, and then reaches out to take the book back from Fitz, cracking open the spine and settling back into his chair, “Think we could maybe turn the lights up a little?”

Fitz nods dumbly, not entirely sure what’s going on; Trip leans back and spins the dial for the lights just slightly, then clears his throat and reads in the most ridiculously deep voice Fitz has ever heard.

“Call me Ishmael.”

* * *

 

Sixteen days after he almost died but didn’t, and sixteen days after he tells Jemma that he loves her, he finally decides that it’s probably time for him to say something. She’s been nervous around him ever since, at least when he’s awake. When he’s asleep, she’ll curl up in the chair next to his bed and tangle their fingers together, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear as soon as she closes her eyes.

Trip has just left, having finished a chapter of _Moby Dick_ , and she’s fluttering around him, taking vitals and talking about medication and his ribs and symptoms of concussions. Fitz catches her wrist in one hand to still her anxious movement, studies for a moment the ways in which his fingers curl around her arm before speaking.

“Jemma,” he whispers, his voice starting to return to its former strength thanks to a few days of conversation with Trip, “We should talk. Sometime.” He sighs, releasing her wrist and hoping she’ll stay put long enough for him to say what he needs to say. She does, biting at her lip and not quite meeting his eye.

“I know it was unfair of me to throw the ball into your court without any notice. It was selfish, and I’m sorry. I just kept thinking during…” he trails off, voice catching on _the fight_ , on _the time I thought I was dying_ , even on _it_ , and his brain is going fuzzy and frozen with images of blood spatters and Ward’s fists and he’s struggling to breathe like his ribs are giving away again. His jaw clenches hard and he screws his eyes shut, trying to shut the images out even as they continue to play against his eyelids.

And then her fingers are wrapped around his wrist, pushing slightly against his racing pulse, as if she is trying to remind him that he is there and she is there and, most importantly of all, they are there, together, as it should be. He fights for breath and memorizes the feeling of her fingers warm against the thin skin of his wrist. Fitz isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but eventually he pulls his breathing back under control and wraps his own fingers around her wrist, so that they sit with their hands twined around each other. She is finally able to meet his eyes as he continues, and it feels like a great victory over the terror attempting to claw its way into his chest.

"I just kept thinking _I hope she knew. I hope she knew I loved her, because I’m dying and it’s important to me that she knew._ And then I wasn’t dying, and you were there, and both of those things seemed like such miracles that I couldn’t help myself. It was probably selfish, and unfair to you, and I’d probably be a better man if I could just say I was sorry without also being glad I told you, but I can’t. So we should talk sometime, when I’m not loopy from pain or painkillers, and when you’re ready. I dumped that on you, and so now I can be patient for as long as I need to be. I just… I don’t know how much more of this awkwardness I can take. I miss my best friend.” She is silent for a long time, still except where her fingers are tapping slightly against his pulse.

“Okay,” Jemma finally whispers, and he can’t decide if it’s a bigger thrill to have her say that or to have her finally looking at him again, really looking, and smiling. Looking at him, not like a broken thing in need of care, but like her best friend. They sit for a while, not speaking, hands slipping from around each other’s wrists to tangle their fingers together; finally, she stands to finish her check-up, but there are teasing comments attached to everything and Fitz feels like he can draw a full breath for the first time in two weeks.

She pauses in the doorway when she goes to leave, promising to retrieve Skye or Trip to sit with him, looking back at him with a softness in her expression that he’s missed, these past few weeks, when she was stiff and guarding every expression that crossed her face while he was awake.

“I’ll try not to take too much time.”

“Take all the time you need,” he replies, and she gets a look on her face he knows well. Since everything happened- HYDRA, the Hub, Trip, Ward, not dying- and maybe even since they’ve been on the Bus, he has learned that there are expressions of Jemma Simmons’s that he does not really understand, despite their closeness. But this one, Leo Fitz is not understanding something obvious, he is very, very familiar with. He realizes that it’s a promise, the only one she can give him right now, and though he doesn’t need it, he appreciates it.

“I’ll try not to take too much time,” she repeats.

“Okay,” he says, and she smiles and disappears out the door. A few minutes later, Skye comes in, tablet in hand, asking which episode of Mythbusters he wants to watch. He responds that he doesn’t care, he’s seen them all and they’re all wonderful, and so she picks one at random and relaxes next to him as they watch.

* * *

 

It’s his first real shower in three weeks, and it’s glorious. Why had he never properly appreciated showers before? Fitz turns the water up as hot as he can bear, and spends a long time just standing under the spray, breathing in the steam and getting used to being on his feet again. It’s the first time Jemma has let him be both upright and unsupervised since everything happened, and it’s exhausting and also great, because it finally feels like he’s slowly edging back into normality.

When the water finally starts to cool, he snaps it off and climbs out, careful of his various bruises and aches and his still healing ribs as he dries off. With his left arm still pretty much useless at his side, he’s able to pull his boxers and sweatpants on with considerable effort, but getting his shirt or the sling for his shoulder on properly proves impossible. Jemma had said she would wait outside to help him, but a quick glance out the door and down the hall reveals her sleeping form, curled up in his bunk. With a small smile, he decides to let her sleep, and pulls his shirt over his head and one arm the best he can before setting off in search of help.

It’s late, so he assumes everyone else is asleep, and has just resigned himself to heading to the cockpit to see if May can help him when he nearly trips over Skye, who is sitting in the corridor and working on her tablet. She looks up at him, and he can see that her eyes are red-rimmed.

“Hey, Fitz,” she says quietly, and her smile is slow but large as she takes in his strange appearance, “Did you forget how to wear a shirt?”

“I can’t get it on properly with my shoulder. Simmons said that she’d wait and help, but I took a long shower, and she fell asleep on my bunk. It’s probably the first real sleep she’s gotten somewhere actually comfortable in weeks, so I thought I could let her sleep and find someone else to help me.”

“Probably a good idea. She’s been sleeping in that chair for weeks now, although I’m sure she’ll be irritated with you tomorrow. Hold on,” she says, and starts to stand before Fitz stops her.

“I’ll come down to you. If I stay standing much longer, I’m going to collapse,” he says, carefully lowering himself to the floor. Between the shower and the walking, his lingering concussion is making its presence known throughout his entire skull.

“Jesus, Fitz,” she says, as she sees the sharp jut of his hipbones where he’s lost all his extra weight, the sickly green and purple bruises still lingering on his torso. They look much better than they did a few weeks prior, but he supposes Skye hasn’t really seen them much in that time. It aches to lower himself to the floor, but it fades to the background once he’s settled a bit.

Skye isn’t as efficient at it as Jemma, doesn’t have the intimate knowledge of joints and limbs and Fitz that she does, but she moves slowly and gently and he’s grateful for her help. Soon, he’s settled against the wall next to her, shirt and sling in place, their shoulders touching as they sit in silence.

“So, you and Trip seem to be friends now,” Skye says to break the silence, “How’d you guys manage that?”

“Would you believe me if I told you we started a book club?” “Not in the slightest.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you, because it really was a book club. We’re reading Moby Dick right now.”

Skye laughs, and it’s good to hear, because she hasn’t laughed much lately. There’s been a fragileness in her eyes, like she is convinced now that she is easily broken. He wants to tell her that it isn’t true, that she’s one of the strongest people he knows, but he also understands that feeling; Fitz has felt exceptionally breakable these last few weeks as well. He can feel her begin to shake against his shoulder before she speaks.

“I hate that I miss him still,” she says, and he can see even in the darkness that she’s crying again, “The him that I thought he was. I know that all of it was a lie, and yet I still miss this imaginary Ward that he created for all of us, for me. The real Ward? I wanted to burn him to the ground and scatter the ashes. I wanted to tear him apart for what he did. But I can’t let the fake Ward go. And it sucks, because I know what he did to us and I know, I saw, what he did to you, and I can’t stop missing him, and wondering what the hell is wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he answers, and when she goes to correct him, he shakes his head, “He played all of us, and you were the one who was closest to him, so it hurts you most of all. He played all of us, betrayed all of us. There’s something wrong with him.” He’s surprised at the venom in his own voice, but if there’s one thing he can’t ever forgive, it is betrayal. It’s like acid in his lungs, the feeling of it, and he looks down at the ground to avoid having to meet Skye’s eyes and have her see the look on his face. Because he doesn’t believe anyone is born evil, but Ward’s betrayal pulls at every frayed edge within him, and he hates it. He can’t let go of the Ward they knew either, and he worries what that says about him, that he could look up, bloody and bruised, at the man who was trying to kill him, knowing that everything had been a lie and still think _we were friends_.

“Yeah, well. It sucks. It just… it sucks.”

“True,” he says, because it does suck.

“We are extremely articulate people when it comes to our feelings,” Skye says, but she’s laughing again. He blushes, rolls his eyes, bumps her shoulder with his, tugs at the hem of his shirt before he decides what to say.

“Listen, everything that happened… it does suck. Ward, HYDRA, all of it. But you’ve still got a family. And we’ve still got you. And that’s a pretty good deal for us, I think.”

She is still and silent next to him for a long moment before she wraps one arm around his waist and buries her face against his shoulder in the best hug she can manage with their current positions.

“It’s a pretty good deal for me, too,” she answers against the fabric of his shirt, and he smiles, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and leaning his head on top of hers. They sit silently like that for a long time, and Fitz thinks maybe she has fallen asleep until she speaks, still leaning into his shoulder.

“I’m glad you and Simmons are less awkward around each other now.”

“Me too.”

“That was awful.”

“It was.”

"You’re cute together.”

“Thanks. But we’re not technically together.”

“Matter of time, Leopold.”

“Maybe.”

“So, a book club, huh?”

“Yeah. Trip is even letting me pick the next book.”

“Would you mind if I joined in?”

“I would mind a lot, actually.”

“Good. I get to pick after you.”

When Jemma finds them sleeping on the floor the next morning, she only yells at them a little bit. Skye and Fitz just smile at each other, trying to act chastised, and eventually Jemma just helps them off the floor, muttering about concussions and broken ribs and _knowing better, Leopold Fitz_. Skye’s eyes look slightly less fragile, and it is absolutely worth the stiffness that lingers in his sides for the next few days.

* * *

 

It’s been a month, and Jemma is really starting to show the wear of sleeping in the chair next to Fitz’s bed every night. Finally, she drifts off while they’re working in the lab, and he convinces her to take at least a night off, sleep in her own bed. Of course, he hadn’t really realized that without the now familiar feeling of her fingers tangled with his, he wouldn’t really be able to sleep himself. The concussion is making his head fuzzy and his ribs are acting up, and he’s been trying to wean himself off the pain medication without really letting Jemma know, so he decides that maybe eating something will make him feel better. Or tea. Tea is the best medicine.

The kitchen area is quiet and dark, which Fitz is intensely grateful for as he moves slowly around it, brewing tea and eating crackers. He sits carefully, breathing deeply like Jemma has instructed him, to keep his lungs healthy and whole.

“That’s twice now you’ve saved my life.”

He jumps, pain shooting up his sides and panic clouding his head, his breath catching and stuttering. There’s a part of his brain telling him to calm down, that recognizes May’s voice, but it’s completely drowned out by the part that is begging not again not again not againnotagainnotagain. Fitz curls down on himself, trying to breathe, clenching his fists to keep from shaking. And she’s there in front of him, her fingers tracing up his ribs softly, bracketing his body.

“Breathe, Fitz, breathe,” she says, and through the panic he realizes that she’s trying to keep his ribs contained, keep him from hurting himself while he’s gasping for breath and putting too much pressure on them, and it’s this more than anything that calms him down. She’s taking care of him.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and May shakes her head.

“Not your fault. Don’t apologize. Breathe.”

“You scared me, I’m sorry, I-“

“Fitz,” the authority in her voice brings his eyes up to hers, “It’s my fault. I should have known better. Breathe.”

This time he just nods, forcing deep breaths, watching her eyes in the darkness. They stay like that for a long time, in the darkness, Fitz’s harsh breathing the only sound until the kettle goes. May rises silently, pours them both a cup, dumps an indeterminate amount of sugar into Fitz’s before handing it over.

"Thank you,” he says, and she nods.

“I’m sorry, Fitz. I wasn’t thinking. I just saw you sitting here and I spoke without thinking.”

“Yeah, well, if you didn’t move like a damn cat,” he says, but he’s smiling and it draws a smile from her over the rim of her cup. They are silent for a long time, Fitz still trying to catch his breath, chase the terror from his brain.

“You saved me too, you know,” he whispers, “with… with Ward, and lots of times before that.”

“That’s my job,” May says back, like the words are a slogan and a lifeline and a promise. And he remembers how he thought of her, after Ward had driven him to his knees, after he had said his goodbyes and prepared to die, remembers how he thought that she would understand.

“You understand why I stayed, right? Why you all were worth dying for? You would have tried to explain to the others?” he asks, and for long moments he thinks maybe he misjudged May, that she cannot possibly understand why he would so willingly sacrifice his life for her and the others, and them alone. And then she nods, slowly.

“They’re the only thing worth dying for,” she says, and he nods back, and they are so very different, he and May, but they are also so very, very alike. He is glad and unsure how to thank her, so he pours them both another cup of tea and makes small talk with her until he’s finally so tired that he’s falling asleep at the table.

May smiles softly and helps him back to bed, and stands there and watches as he swallows two painkillers and he probably should have known that super spy Melinda May knew he wasn’t taking his medicine. He wonders why she hasn’t told Jemma, and then thinks that maybe they are alike in more ways than just who and what they would die for.

Maybe she understands what it’s like, to look for strength in whatever way you could find it in the moments you feel weakest, when your body is broken and your brain is fuzzy and filled with panic. Maybe she understands what it’s like to try to find whatever fragile strength you can when you feel so breakable.

* * *

 

He doesn’t really know why he’s here. With the exception of May, the others had all been completely and openly against it. Jemma had all but begged him not to go, and Coulson, Skye and Trip had tried to talk him out of it for the entire week leading up to the visit. May had asked him why he wanted to go, and when he’d answered with only a shrug, she had seemed to understand somehow, even if he didn’t understand himself.

So he’s walking down a long, dimly lit hallway, looking straight ahead and trying not to squeeze Jemma’s fingers too hard. The team walks behind him, and two heavily armed guards walk in front of them. They stop in front of a door with its own two guards, and Fitz is only managing to keep breathing because he is actively telling himself to do so.

“We’ll be right out here, Fitz,” says Skye, and Trip nods agreement from her side. Coulson and May both have steel in their eyes as the guards unlock the door. Jemma meets his eyes for a few seconds before pushing up on her toes and pressing a firm kiss against his cheek. One of the guards pulls open the door, and Fitz steps toward it, not letting go of Jemma’s hand until the physical limits of their arms require it. When he passes the guard, he sees a look on the man’s face that might be admiration.

And then the door closes behind him, and Leo Fitz is alone in a room with Grant Ward. He’s surprised how much he’s changed in six and a half weeks; the other man is gaunt, and the scruff he’d had when Fitz had last seen him is now a thick and wild beard, his previously neat hair greasy and long. His wrists are secured to the table in front of him and his ankles to the floor, and Fitz presses himself back against the wall anyway, fighting the terror in his brain with the security of the cinderblocks.

“Hey, Fitz,” Ward says, like they’re back on the Bus, like he had never betrayed them, like he had never sprayed Fitz’s blood across a hallway very similar to the one the team had just walked down.

And he had been their _friend_. They had trusted him, Fitz had trusted him, and Ward had repaid him in blood and broken ribs. It fills Fitz’s lungs with acid, and he curls his fingers in against his palms so hard that they ache.

“You wanted to see me?” he asks, and he refuses to let his voice shake, not with fury or terror or anything else, and the tiny space he manages to put between his back and the wall feels like a victory.

“They told me you had lived. I thought… I don’t know. I guess, I thought maybe they were lying to me. I wanted to see it with my own eyes.” And what right does Ward think he has to be assured of Fitz’s survival? He’s burning up with the acidic anger in his chest, pain racing up and down his ribs and into the knot forming in his skull, and Grant Ward did this to him, this physical and emotional brokenness that is pulling Fitz apart, and he wants to see with his own eyes if he’s alive?

He had seen Skye’s desperate message and Koenig’s dead body and he had still believed that Ward wasn’t what they were saying he was. He was the last person on earth who had believed that Grant Ward was not a monster, and he had been treated monstrously for that belief. He had watched his blood splatter across the floor and felt his bones crack and had known he was going to die, had been so absolutely sure that this was it and-

“Why didn’t you just kill me?”

Because does he understand what it’s like, to think you were going to die, to _know_ you were going to die, for something righteous, for people who deserved to live, but die nonetheless, and then not die? To stand right at the edge and stare death straight in the face and watch death turn away from you, and the scars it leaves across your heart? He could have killed him in one blow; he knows this is true, because he’d watched Ward do it before to others. And yet he’d kept hitting him, and Fitz doesn’t know if it’s worse if he doesn’t understand, or if he does.

“I just couldn’t,” says Ward, and his voice is so completely blank that it sounds computerized.

And Fitz realizes that all Grant Ward did for the team was _not let them die_. Simmons jumped from a plane, Fitz got sent on a field mission, Coulson was kidnapped, Skye was shot, and Ward very carefully did not let any of them die. Even when his allegiance had been revealed, he hadn’t let any of them die. It’s one step above _not actively attempting to kill them himself_ and it’s a poor excuse for caring about them. And maybe he really had cared for them, or Skye at least, and maybe he should be able to see the redemption in that; but for Leo Fitz, there’s no redemption from betrayal as complete as Ward’s, not when he believed in him for so long past when he should have and was repaid in anguish.

There is so much to say, and he doesn’t want to say any of it, so he turns and raps on the door, slips out the moment the guard has opened it wide enough, doesn’t give Ward time to react or say anything. The team is standing outside the door, just like they said they would be, but he doesn’t stop there; he needs to get out of here, get somewhere he can shout and scream and break things and quite possibly throw up and-

Jemma’s hand catches his, and he knows it’s her hand because he has become intimately familiar with the feel of Jemma Simmons’s hand in his over the past month and a half, and she tugs, pulling him back to her, like she always has, away from the screaming, raging, acidic betrayal in his chest. She wraps her arms tight around him, presses her face against his chest, and his shoulders press against the wall of the hallway as he hugs her back. And then Skye is there, one arm slipping around Jemma’s shoulders and the other around Fitz’s waist, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying, huge, wracking sobs that make his ribs ache. He buries his face in Jemma’s hair as he feels Trip join the hug, long arms managing somehow to reach all three of them.

And Coulson’s hand is on his shoulder and he can feel May’s slim fingers bunching the fabric of his jumper just slightly at his waist, and he wonders how they got here, to this desperate huddle. He’s never been a touchy person, but right now the points of contact are siphoning the anger out of him, pulling it away and dissipating it in the air around him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but when they all finally pull away, he’s out of tears and his chest aches because of his ribs and not because there’s rage trying to escape though his heart.

Jemma is holding his hand again, and the team is behind him, and there are things in the world that are not all right and things that are, and he’s struggling with the balance right now for sure, but they are all there to help him. Their loyalty will hold the betrayal at bay, like his had for them, and they will find their way.

* * *

 

It’s an easy enough design, really. He’s got some natural talent, and he’s spent his whole life sketching designs, so four circles and a star takes barely any concentration at all. For two and a half months now, he’s been doodling it in the corners of his notes and on scraps of paper in the lab; it’s comforting somehow, becoming familiar as Fitz and the team move back toward normality, or whatever passes for normality when you’re living on a plane. Skye sets up a program to find them new cases, and they don’t have S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore but they’ve got each other and most days it seems like more than enough.

Jemma, Trip and Skye are in the kitchen area, arguing about something they’re making; apparently, Skye wants to put roughly an entire cow’s worth of butter in it, which Trip and Jemma are strongly against. Fitz is sitting on the couch, half asleep, the symptoms of his concussion still lingering, listening to their banter and sketching. Coulson drops next to him with a sigh and glances over at his work.

“How do you get it so perfectly round?” he asks, and Fitz turns to him with raised eyebrows. The older man digs his own notebook out of his pocket, opens it to reveal pages of notes with little shields drawn all around the edges. Some of them are shaded in pen, most are lopsided, the star too big or small on some, but all of them are clearly drawn with love.

“Practice,” he shrugs, and Coulson shakes his head, clearly displeased with the unfairness of the world. Fitz can feel him looking at the thin scar curling over his top lip, the only physical reminder of Ward’s beating that he has left.

“You know, that was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, and that’s highest praise coming from Phil Coulson, who confronted a god and didn’t quite live to tell about it, and then charged back out into the field anyway, and Fitz feels distinctly unworthy.

He was just scared of them dying. It wasn’t bravery, not really, and he wants to explain that in some way, make Coulson understand that he had been terrified out of his mind, of Ward, of dying, of a thousand other things. But the worst fear, the one that had filled his lungs and pushed all the others out of his brain was the thought that they would die. That they were good and righteous and the world needed them and they did not deserve to die, and that Ward didn’t care about any of that. And so he had hollowed himself out with that fear and prepared to die.

“Anyone would have done it,” he says, looking down at the notebook on his lap.

“No, Fitz, they wouldn’t have,” Coulson says, “You understand that, right? That what you did was extraordinary?”

“I… I just couldn’t let any of you die. Not if I could do anything to stop it.”

"Why the shield?” Coulson asks after a long time, “Why Captain America’s shield?”

“I kept thinking of that story you told me, one time. About Captain America and the river of truth? Ward kept yelling at me to move, and I just kept remembering that story. When the guy you thought was your friend but turned out to be a lying scumbag working for a secret Nazi organization tells you to move, you plant yourself next to the river of truth and say ‘No, you move.’” There are brief flashes, of blood and Ward and not dying, but the solid shape of Coulson next to him and the background hum of the others still arguing about their recipe chases them away before they can burrow their way into his brain.

"Sometimes, being brave is only possible because you’re scared out of your mind. The point of no return offers quite the view."

It means a lot, that Coulson, who had died for his belief in heroes, would look at Fitz like he was a hero, like he had done something worth admiring, and he speaks around a lump in his throat, “Thank you, sir.”

“And I’m no expert, but I think Captain Rogers would think that’s a pretty good story.”

“Sir, I think you are kind of considered an expert.”

“True. Not considering me an expert would be a grave mistake. Now, show me how you get the star so perfectly centered.”

So Fitz sits and draws shield after shield, making what he considers a valiant effort not to laugh at the face Coulson makes when he’s really concentrating, and lets the noise of the Bus and his team surround him. There may be quite the view from the point of no return, and even with his new scars inside and out, he would still revisit it for these people, these brilliant, bright, ridiculous people, but he thinks that he quite prefers the one he has right now.

* * *

 

“Just eat the cookie, Trip!” Skye shouts, trying to physically shove an Oreo into Triplett’s mouth. He’s swatting her away gently, laughing along with her.

“I don’t put crap in the temple!” he responds, and puts his huge hand against Skye’s forehead to hold her away from him. She struggles for a while before giving up and eating the cookie herself, and Triplett flexes his biceps in victory.

“You are the worst person on this plane,” Skye says, throwing one at Trip’s face.

“Stop wasting the Oreos,” says Fitz.

“Stop messing up the lab,” says Jemma at the same time, though she seems to be distracted by something, not really paying complete attention to the others, staring into the middle distance.

“Good to see that one of you has your priorities in order,” says Skye, sliding the last two Oreos across to Fitz as a reward.

“We probably shouldn’t be eating in here anyway,” says Trip, “It seems kind of unsanitary.”

“You two are the ones who brought the Oreos to book club.”

“You are the one who insisted on having book club in the lab.”

“I need to recalibrate a couple of the dwarves. They’ve been acting up.”

“How are you going to discuss the book and work on your little toys?” asks Trip, and Fitz shoots him a look that he hopes easily translates into _I am world class genius Leo Fitz, and that question is dumb_. Trip holds up his hands in surrender, but he’s smirking.

“Tell me why we’re reading this book again?” Skye asks, holding up her copy of Harris & Me.

“Because it is an American classic, and do not even try to pretend that you did not pee yourself laughing at this book,” says Trip, looking mildly offended. Fitz smiles as they talk back and forth, teasing and happy. He’ll join them in a little bit, but for now he’s happy to sit and fiddle with the bots, the current of the team swirling around him. It’s been three months since everything happened, and he’s finally allowed to move around normally again.

This is good, he thinks. This team and this place and this moment, it’s good. There had been times when he seriously thought that there might not ever be anything good again, but this certainly is. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a hand on his arm, and he assumes it’s Skye, wanting to pull him into the discussion on her side, because it wouldn’t be a Bus book club without sides, but it’s Jemma, and for a second he just stares at her fingers spread softly against his bicep.

“I know you’re working, and also participating in whatever is happening over there,” she points at Skye and Trip, both of whom are gesticulating wildly, possibly arguing, possibly re-enacting a scene from the book, “but I was wondering if maybe we could talk.”

“Sure, what’s up?” he asks, and she bites her lip and doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s strange, because she hasn’t been like this around him in months, but he waits patiently, holding his breath.

“Somewhere not here would be preferable, actually,” she says, and tilts her head towards the hallway that leads from the lab back toward the bunks and the lounge area. He nods, and stands to follow her, sees that Trip and Skye are watching them now, both sets of eyebrows quirked at him, grins on their faces. He shakes his head at the pair of them. Jemma stops just before the lounge, chewing her bottom lip, and he waits for her to say something.

"You said we should talk sometime, when you weren’t out of it, and when I was ready, and I’m almost ready. I just… I need to do one more thing," she says, and Fitz wonders if she can hear the pounding of his heart in the small space of the hallway.

"Okay," he says, forcing his voice to remain level. Jemma studies his face for what feels like an eternity, and he’s just about to ask what she’s looking for when her fingers wrap around his bicep and she tugs him closer to her. For a moment, her eyes seem to take up the entirety of his field of vision, and then she pushes up on her toes and presses her lips to his. He freezes for a moment, and then he presses back, hand moving to grasp at her hip and keep her close to him as his head spins with surprise and happiness and Jemma. Fitz feels her grin against his lips, and it’s warm and soft and perfect, and in all the time he’s spent imagining this, he could never have ever hoped to equal the real thing.

They finally pull away to breathe, but not far, foreheads resting together, her hand still wrapped around his arm, his at her waist. He supposes that he’s grinning like an idiot, but her whole face is lit up by her smile, and she’s so beautiful and so close and he is in awe of her, every single thing about her. She is smart and beautiful and kind and he will never deserve to even stand close to her, but he loves her and she had kissed him and he’ll just have to do the best he can.

"Do you want to talk now?" he asks, trying to think clearly through the haze of joy currently flooding his brain.

"No," she replies, and then they’re kissing again. Her hand moves over his shoulder to curl around the back of his neck and her tongue skims against his bottom lip, and when two fingers of his hand find the warm skin of her waist where her shirt has ridden up slightly as she stretches to kiss him, he feels like he’s on fire. His scientific brain tells him spontaneous combustion is impossible, but there’s no other way to describe it; it feels like he’s about to burst into flames, but he cannot resist the chance to burn for her.

Fitz doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but they only break apart when they hear a loud whoop and an exclamation of _about damn time_ from behind them in the hallway. He looks over his shoulder to find Trip and Skye, applauding with identical grins on their faces; Jemma buries her head against his neck, but he can feel her smile against his skin, and even when he groans at the two of them, he can’t get rid of his own smile.

"Who had today?" Skye asks, pulling a rather impressive wad of bills out of her jeans pocket, "I had Wednesday. Am I the closest?"

"I had next Monday," says Trip, as Coulson and May appear behind them, drawn by the yelling.

"What’s happening?" Coulson asks, caught between worry and amusement.

"Fitzsimmons, AC. We’re settling the bet," she turns to Fitz and Jemma, who are gaping at the group of them, "AC, being a hopeless romantic, picked a date like two and a half weeks ago."

"You were betting on when we were going to get together?"

"Uh, yeah. Right after you told Jemma you needed to talk sometime, when she was ready," says Trip, like Fitz’s question is ridiculous.

"How did you know about that?"

"May told me."

"Coulson told me," May says, reaching out to snag the cash from Skye’s hand, "And I believe this belongs to me, since it is my day."

"You guessed the exact day? What sort of magic being are you?" asks Trip, watching May count through the bills.

"How did Coulson know?" Jemma asks, looking accusingly at Skye.

"Yes, ok, I might have accidentally told him, and then made a bet with him about when you would get together. And then invited May and Trip to join in. Accidentally." "That was a secret!" Jemma says, but she’s still smiling, and winding her fingers through Fitz’s, and he would probably be more annoyed if it wasn’t so amusing and if Jemma wasn’t pressed, warm and solid, against his side. They were, after all, all happy for the two of them.

"There are no secrets on the Bus. Trip is a huge gossip," Skye replies, and Trip nods next to her.

"When she says ‘huge gossip,’ I believe what she really means is ‘handsome gossip,’" he says, which earns him an elbow to the gut and a smile from Skye.

"How’s this for a secret on the Bus," Jemma says softly, and her lips brush the shell of his ear as she whispers, "I love you."

If his grin gets any larger, it’s going to split his face in half, “That’s a pretty big one.”

"No secrets on the Bus," shouts Skye, but she gives up the staring contest with Fitz without much of a fight. He thinks she has a pretty good idea what Jemma said anyway.

"Skye, anything popping up on our radar?" Coulson asks, and when the hacker shakes her head, he turns to May, "Next major city we can set down in, land this thing. We should give Fitz a chance to take Simmons out on a real first date."

"Phillip Coulson is a hopeless romantic and it is gross," says Skye, pulling a face, but Coulson is slowly herding the group of them down the hallway, rolling his eyes. Then they’re alone again, Jemma tucked securely against his side with her hand warm in his.

And it’s good, he thinks, to be in this place with these people.They’re all still somewhat broken, rough around the edges and fragile in places, but they’re here and they’re together. Fitz knows that there are still difficulties ahead for all of them, because they might not really be S.H.I.E.L.D. agents anymore, but they are still trying to save the world, pieces at a time, as best they can.

Until then though, he’s just going to be here. Reading with Trip and helping Skye slip junk food into his protein shakes. Teaching Coulson to draw his hero’s shield and sharing tea with May on the nights their respective demons chase them from sleep.

And he plans on spending a large portion of that time kissing Jemma Simmons, for as long as she’ll let him. When worlds fall down and are built back up again, it’s always him and her and the team, but right now it’s just the two of them and no immediate catastrophes, and his hand slips into her hair as he leans back against the wall and she leans into his body.

"Do you want to talk now?" he asks, and she is glowing in the dimness of the hallway, celestial, and he traces light fingers down her neck, like touching her will cause him to burst into flames; he’d like nothing more than to burn with the intensity of his love for her if it means he gets to keep kissing her.

"No," she whispers against his lips. And so they don’t.

**Author's Note:**

> In this week’s edition of “Zoe Uses Entire Verses for Her Titles,” this one comes from San Bernardino by the Mountain Goats.
> 
>  
> 
> Why a person that struggles with writing dialogue as much as I do decided to write an entire story centering around conversations is a complete mystery. In addition, there are incredibly talented people in this fandom who write beautiful stories that are sparse and lovely. I am clearly not one of those people. I am in awe of those people, as I sit here and write my beloved run-on sentences.
> 
> My AoS headcanons that make it into this story:
> 
> -Leo Fitz loves Mythbusters a lot. Like, a lot a lot.  
> -Leo Fitz is the biggest Gryffinpuff to ever live and Melinda May is the biggest Huffledor to ever live, and despite their many differences, they bond over this.  
> -Trip shouts “I do not put crap in the temple!” at least three times a week in reference to him not eating junk food. This is probably because Fitz and Skye and sometimes Simmons are constantly trying to put junk food in his protein shakes and green salads.  
> -Not particularly a headcanon, but I was probably harsher on Grant Ward than he maybe deserved? I don’t know, but with the events of both Nothing Personal and ‘we’re nothing,’ he and Fitz obviously have some major issues.  
> -Hopeless romantic Phillip Coulson


End file.
